


A Cordial Contract

by samlavie



Category: Naruto, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anbu Yamato | Tenzou, Attempt at Humor, Character Study, Family, Genma is a Saint™, Kakashi is Sukea for those who don't know, Mineta Minoru Dies, Sakura can only deal with kakashi at odd intervals, Sakura is also fascinated by the internet, Sort Of, Team Ro, Tenzō is trademarked handler of Kakashi, Yuugao is fascinated by the internet, because i didn't, but for different reasons, but i digress, did you know they capitalize tupperware to Tupperware, i don't know how to tag, wrong fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 02:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samlavie/pseuds/samlavie
Summary: “Mr. Sukea,” demurs Fury with a healthy dose of skepticism. The director’s one eye skims him toe to head, dubious in nature just as much as his incredulous greeting. “Of the,” he references the papers, “‘Elemental Countries’.”“That would be correct,” smiles the foreign man.Agent Hill, from her stance at the very back of the room, looks mildly aggrieved as she spreads her hands helplessly to his pointed look.





	A Cordial Contract

A Cordial Contract - Chapter 1

X

“Ka-Ka-Shi-sensei!”

Kakashi cringes, wishing for once that the damnable collar of his jōnin vest would swallow him whole. He could always disappear, fling some jutsu and pop away to someplace quiet and settled, but that would be seen as purposely fleeing, and then Naruto would be ten times as unbearable the next instance he is caught.

Instead he buries himself in flat plains of text as he tries unremittingly to devolve his consciousness solely in the erotica of his fabled porn.

“Kaka-sensei! There you are!”

Lies. Naruto knew his location from the moment he entered the training grounds.

The idiosyncratic way Naruto’s laughter bubbles and disperses as the man wrangles himself up the tree and several feet off from Kakashi’s reclined position across the branch inspires a thread of weariness and simultaneous adoration in him. He dismisses the feelings and tries valiantly to focus on the graphic caricature of a hefty breasted woman on page sixty-eight (Jiraiya-sensei’s idea of a joke, surely).

It’s all for naught, however, as Naruto begins his tangent of thought, inexplicably switching from topics circling today’s lunch and the rising political tensions between Iwa and Konoha (of which is none all surprising given Iwa’s war mongrel history, though the same could be said of any village at differing points in time – Konoha has slaughtered just as much if not more in their pursuit of peace).

Kakashi hems and haws, not actually entering the wholly one-sided conversation as he flicks through the carnivorous text of heightening sexual tension between two side characters he doesn’t bother to remember the names of.

Then Naruto is quieting, posture curling as he molds himself to the trunk of the tree that shafts the thick branch they rest on.

He sighs, runs a bandaged hand over his jaw, and looks to the cropped canopy as he says, “Gaara said they found another outsider. They were found at the southern border of Wind Country this time, just outside the barrier.” He looks at Kakashi, who has dutifully lowered his book. “They’re getting restless, that’s what Gaara thinks. He thinks they’ll start trying to get through the barrier soon.”

Kakashi remains quiet in reserve for Naruto’s dithering silence. Clearly, his student is gearing up for something and Kakashi can toss a guess at what.

When the silence drags, Kakashi claps his book closed and shucks it beneath his vest, absently releasing the seal to keep it from bulging noisily through the jacket. “Do you have a mission for me, Hokage-sama?”

Naruto looks grateful (and mildly putout) at the offer before nodding, sober faced. “Yeah. It’s…” he scratches his cheek. “It was going to be official, but I don’t think some of the council members will be too happy with me if Konoha chooses to engage the outside world but, ha, I really don’t like where this is going. It feels…”

Naruto always has been one for moving on. For improving what others have always deemed to be acceptable, always going above and beyond because his student has never and will never believe in stagnating. It’s why he makes such a great Hokage, one better than him in the very least.

Kakashi smiles beneath his mask and bows his head. “Of course, Hokage-sama—” Naruto twitches at the formal address and Kakashi’s smile does not widen. “What will you have me do?”

And the mission is laid out. At first, Naruto almost timidly suggests infiltration and possible sabotage, but the man isn’t built that way. He’s made for breaking barriers and forming bonds and weaving friendships that will last lifetimes, and so Kakashi suggests going with his strengths.

(Kakashi is a good actor, always has been and always will be, as a member of the Hatake clan. Prior to the feudal era, prior even to the shinobi age, his clan was a source of artists and of thespians. They reveled in the arts of sabotage, of undermining and subversion. They dug their way through lauded mercenary groups and finicky drug rings, murdered the noble and played the poor.

In an era of genjutsu, ninjutsu, of _chakra_ , his clan _thrived_. He’s not made like Naruto is. He’s made for slinking through mist heavy nights and slitting throats and murdering political enemies and slaughtering children. He’s not constructed that way, isn’t built for long lasting friendships and trust inspired relationships. It’s why Gai is such a mystery to him.)

At his suggestion, Naruto brightens and happily relays the details of a new plan.

“Contracts,” he says. “We can build a relationship with their government. Konoha will go in first, be the first in contact and we’ll make sure nothing will go wrong if the other villages want to expand. Plus,” a sheepish expression lifts his lips, “we need the money.”

A peaceful nation, while restful, is not in correlation with an entirely profitable economy. A Hidden Village relies heavily on incoming missions, it’s why a village’s shinobi must be the best, must show that they are the best in an otherwise carefully redacted community that practically seethes secrecy. It’s so that their skills can be bought and sold and returned, and it is so their villages may thrive.

Peace means less desperate civilians. Less incidents needful of the incurred wrath of a daimyo to sate the people. Less missions, less money.

Of course, there will always be the odd village or so in need of a shinobi’s touch. Clans in need of guarding. Nobles in need of swift execution.

Kakashi nods but makes sure his doubt is plain on his face and posture. “I understand, but Naruto,” he says, “I’m not suited for this kind of, ah, mission.” He gestures emphatically with one gloved palm. “I’m more of a… stab and run kind of person.”

Naruto nods like he saw this coming and gets up on his haunches, fingers waving. “I know! But Kaka-sensei you’re one of the best actors out there!”

“Ah, thank you, Hokage-sama.”

“If anything, you’d be the one to convince them most.”  A sullen air surrounds Naruto all of the sudden. “As long as you don’t mess with them like you did with us. You’ll make them hate us, agh, no. That’s not positive thinking!”

Kakashi softens his incredulity, lips curving in a smile Naruto will not see. Hinata’s work, he supposes. Getting her husband back to that bright eyed little wallaby of kid who never ceased to see the bright end of a dauntless horizon. The wars had taken much, and sadly, Naruto was only one of the millions left reeling in one way or another.

With a finite curve of his eyes, Kakashi raps his knuckles on his student’s forehead, inciting a blustering ‘gah!’ from the man.

“I’ll be good, promise,” he says as he uses his other hand to mark an ‘X’ over his heart in a cheesy move. Before Naruto can add dubious interjections, he continues with an air of faint amusement and oblique exasperation, “Though I don’t know how you will pull this off without the council’s notice. You say you want to offer a contract, but that has to be approved by more than a few people. While I am good at finding loopholes, I don’t think I’m as good as the Cryptologist Team fixing them.”

Naruto rubs his nose and looks dismayed.

Kakashi leans back, spine settling neatly on a gnarled knot of the branch and teetering precariously (Naruto looks at him fretfully). “Maa, I don’t think the council will object,” he says with an indolent wave of a weak wrist. He watches the sky, bruised dark with a setting sun. “They’ll make noise but give in, they always do with you.”

Naruto makes an embarrassed sound and shuffles some, clothing rustling. After a brief stint of silence, the man sighs as if he were breathing his last and Kakashi peeks at him. Exhaustion – it’s what his student encapsulates to a near perfect degree.

“Tomorrow, then.”

Tomorrow, indeed, the mission is laid out.

With the council’s admittedly ire wrung approval (though those of the younger few, who grew up with Naruto, mostly the Ino-Shika-Chō tribe and few others were easy enough to convince), the mission was planned out accordingly.

As predicted, Shikamaru laid down the bare facets of the plan, jotted down each main article of the bare-boned contract, and then sent it to the Cryptologist Department (not without a due amount of complaining), where a team versed in locating and staunching the multitude of loopholes common in mission requests of Konoha got to work in officializing the report.

Naruto suggests Kakashi for the mission, and Kakashi gets a nice panoramic view of the cacophony of chaos that ensues this declaration because he gets his own Clan Chair and literally gets a front row seat.

It’s settled in fewer than five months and on the fourth, Kakashi is shipped out with three ANBU and one jōnin.

X

“Maa, it sure is pretty out here.”

“It looks just the same as the rest of Wind Country.”

“Ah, but look,” Kakashi points. “The sky is different.”

“It’s the same, boss.”

“Maa. It’s very dark. And look at the clouds. They look black, much different from our own back home.”

“Kakashi-sensei,” says one of them, “Shut up.”

Silence is brief for all the peace it brings to the tortured souls of Team Ro.

“Ah, is that a tortious?”

“Is it too late to transfer?”

“Boss is just like that. You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t want to. I wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission in the first place. I should be with—”

“Maa, Sakura-chan, I’m wounded. Do you not want my company?”

There’s no hesitation. “No.”

“Ouch. Straight to the heart there, boss. You sure raised a brutal kid.”

“They grow up so fast,” Kakashi sniffs.

The sky is pastel, dark and nigh clogged with clouds. It is different from home, for all the protests by Team Ro. It’s heavier, the scent of ozone less prominent. The tang of smoke and starved oxygen suffocates this world outside their own.

“Oi, Yamato, you with us?”

“He’s wearing ear plugs.”

“What? Why?”

Yūgao makes a vague gesture that could imply a horde possible meanings. “Helps with concentration.”

Yamato being their surveillance at the moment, Genma reconciles that it wouldn’t be unusual for the man to crave a bit of silence to ease his senses. Though the lack of sarcastic and highly abstruse commentary unsettles him some.

Genma’s used to the Boss saying some usual dumb shit that is either meant to infuriate the team or josh them into some convoluted conversation that inevitably derails into something even worse, and is used to Yamato responding in monotone answers, shadowed faces meant to further disrupt civil tête-à-tête, and nodding smiles that normally end with a solemn, “Of course, Kakashi-senpai.”

So to say, the silence from the normally oblique man is startling.

“Kakashi-sensei, move.”

“But the tortious. It was asking something very important, Sakura-chan. I believe it’s lost its mother and I’ve never been one to deny a grieving—”

“Move or I’ll move you.”

“How cruel and unusual, Sakura-chan.”

“Very heartless of you,” Yamato inexplicably chimes in, face draining of color and shadows wreathing him gaunt as he stares Boss’s student down. The effect is dimmed by the porcelain ANBU mask and the formless cloak.

Genma huffs and Yūgao snorts.

X

Fury has never heard of the ‘Elemental Countries’.

Fury has never heard of real life ninja outside of feudal Japanese fairy tales and comedy sketches decades too late rerunning on Comedy Central’s channel past midnight.

Fury will graciously admit to feeling more than an ages worth of doubt and a lapse of patience when he is met with barricades and invisible walls of deserts and a man looking so impossibly foreign even he could not possibly belong to Japanese heritage.

Before him stands a man, obviously of an ethnicity unknown but related however distantly to some instance of Asian value. Deep lilac spears two vertical lines down the man’s white cheeks and paints his eyelids just as heavily. Markings for some distinction Fury does not know, meant to either resemble some untoward beast (or being of religion or culture) or to symbolize _something_.

Simply dressed in dark slacks and an ambiguous sweater meant for polite company, the man doesn’t offer any instance of perceivable body language other than the courteously civil attention and the faint exhaustive lines in the stress of his shoulders, from travel presumably. Mousy hair, blameless skin, and a beauty mark just under lips which often twitch in a bushed smile.

Fury has all the reason to distrust whatever this meeting is allocating to.

X

Kakashi is, absurdly, reminded of himself in a bizarre way. It’s the eye, of course. The most prominent feature of the man is his missing eye and subsequent eyepatch. But there is also the deep-seated wariness, the constant caution lining the man’s dark face like wrinkles and scars. It’s the attention in his posture, the brusque lines of his shoulders and the hard-fought callouses that knot the man’s wide hands.

With a quirk of his brow, the meeting begins.

X

“Mr. Sukea,” demurs Fury with a healthy dose of skepticism. The director’s one eye skims him toe to head, dubious in nature just as much as his incredulous greeting. “Of the,” he references the papers, “‘Elemental Countries’.”

“That would be correct,” smiles the foreign man.

Agent Hill, from her stance at the very back of the room, looks mildly aggrieved as she spreads her hands helplessly to his pointed look.

“And could you explain to me why you were found loitering in the SHIELD’s lobby under the guise of a diplomat from,” another glance to the scattered papers, “Mongolia?”

“’Under the guise’?” inquires the man politely.

Fury is in no shape of mind to dredge out response after response from this man. His patience has never been more than a fuse already simmering on the edge of fruition, just a few harried degrees short of lighting.

“What are the Elemental Countries and in what way are you connected to them.”

“Straight to the point,” murmurs the man with a wry smile. He touches his scarf, as if to assure himself of its presence, before with careful, slow movements, he slips something from his pocket and into his hand.

It’s a scroll. One of those Chinese ones that unravel histories and survive eras. It’s small and thin.

“If I may?”

Fury keep a watchful eye on Hill’s fingers and nods. “If this is a trap,” he lets off, warning in his voice.

The foreign man unfurls it, plain parchment uncurling. Across its pale gold face, denotes a simple crest. Some sort of abstract symbol, used for sealing letters in wax or some such romantic shit. Black ink whirls and eddies over the paper, stark and broad and delicate. Unrecognizable, like hieroglyphs.

A pale finger touches the center and Fury knows it’s an illusion of some sort. A break in reality some such like Dr. Strange and his mysterious feats of magic.

A ring of light births a wide scroll. Wider than its previous and lengthier too. Flat knobs at either end of the scroll are of lacquered crimson, as deep as spilt blood and as illuminant as polished stone. Thick lines of black ink border the scroll’s rolled pages, framing white between its vertical grip.

The scroll is set on his desk butt first, stood up by an index finger that taps once and then retreats, working to sweep the smaller scroll closed and into a pocket without hesitance.

Fury looks the man in the eyes. Bright brown meet his black, and he keeps a snarl from wrinkling his nose.

“What is this.”

A smile unfolds on the stranger’s lips, tribal marks stretching and eyes narrowing to curved slits.

“A proposition.”

“A proposition,” Fury echoes, challenging.

A nod. “A proposition.”

Fury reclines, fingers braiding beneath his chin and a lackadaisical stretch to his figure. “And what, pray tell, would this proposition be?”

A blunt nail taps the polished plateau of the vertically stood scroll. Once, twice, three times. “The Elemental Countries are home to nine nations,” says the blithe man. “Five of which are big enough to be named, in your culture, rather small countries. I am a diplomat from one of those five nations, Fire Country. In our culture, the use of infiltration, sabotage, tracking, assassination, and intelligence gathering is an art form cultured heavily in all of these nations.

“Fire Country is the largest of these. The most skilled. The most populated. And of the highest quality shinobi – or, as you say, ninja.” The smile remains quiet and unassuming, docile and warm. “I am here to offer our services in exchange for currency, of which I am sure we can knock out the details with ease.”

Fury unfolds himself, wary.

The desert, the wall strong enough to halt even the Hulk, the barrier that reflects only dry, cracked earth and a blameless sky. Rumors of odd weather trafficking the air just above where the illusion mists, of upturned soil and the bitter taint of ozone wafting the sky.

“And what of the other countries? Do they have stakes in this? Will they come after us?”

The stranger, Mr. Sukea, smiles obliquely. “It is all in the contract, Mr. Fury.”

X

It is all in the contract, indeed.

Fury skims it, rereads it, and sets it aside for Hill to pick up. She does, with a shrewd look casted at Mr. Sukea, before stalking from the room, stout heels clicking out after her.

Silence stretches between them, a stagnant pause that seems to draw the foreigner into an even more chipper mood, cracking the man’s smile into a sharp grin that holds just enough canines to be wary of.

“I’m gathering a demonstration will be necessary.”

“You’ve gathered correctly.”

“Would I be allowed to confer with my associates on how exactly we may prove to you we would be valuable assets?”

Normally, Fury would be irritated enough to suggest a clipped, “Confer away,” but he remembers a certain ledger in the contract. A clause that dealt with miracle healing and the consequent pay one would have to dole out.

“Your doctors, or healers. Tell me about them.”

“Medical-nin are a very integral part of our society. There is normally one hospital in a village, two if the population warrants it. One hospital is focused primarily on incoming and outgoing ninja. It is primarily employed with field medics and ninja versed in the art of chakra healing, while the other is more engrained in civilian life, however the healers there are just as trained as their coworkers but hold a higher civilian employment record than a strictly ninja based work force.

“In villages where just one hospital is built, on most occasions the topmost floors will be cut off from civilians and branded strictly for ninja, while the lower floors will be the civilian sector. However, on the odd occasion that a third hospital—”

Fury gnashes his teeth and says, “Procedural practices. Tell me about _how_ they heal.”

“Ah,” says Mr. Sukea, “those would be trade secrets, I’m afraid.” His eyes crescent in a smile and it’s strange how often the man closes them, as if from habit. “Would you benefit from a demonstration of our medic-nin’s skills, however?”

With a short, brusque jerk of his head, Fury steeples his fingers and sorts through the slanted notes he’d been quick to jot to the side. “Will they be available at this time next week?”

It would take at least that long for the contract to be properly analyzed and sifted through thoroughly enough. It would not be long enough to let the World Council decide on whether to sign the pact or not (though SHIELD will nonetheless be dealing with the Elemental Nations from here on out no matter the elders’ decision, the offer too valuable to eclipse with bureaucratic bullshit).

Mr. Sukea dithers, looking obnoxiously thoughtful with an index finger tap-tapping his chin and his head canted like a child. He nods in affirmation after a pause, unnaturally sharp teeth stark against pink gum as he says with enthusiasm, “Of course! That should be perfect! Is there a number or email I could contact you with?”

Suspicion has churned in his gut from the moment he met the mysterious delegate. He feels no different now, even several or so hours into their meeting.

“You can call administration at this number and you’ll be passed to me. Agent Hill should be waiting outside and she’ll collect your contact details.” Courtesy has never come to him as quick as to some of the media representatives of SHIELD and Fury will lie to no one about what exactly he feels. He reigns this in, in respect for a potential client that may very well turn a few million tides this coming meeting. In that, he can politely say, with perhaps a hint of gruffness, “Thank you for your offer.”

It’s as much a dismissal as it is a ‘see you later’, and Mr. Sukea bows shortly and with insurmountable grace as he says, “The pleasure has been mine, Mr. Fury,” and leaves.

Fury watches his back and listens to the staccato click of heels and the _shlink_ of his office door sealing itself closed.

X

Kakashi leaves the tower with a tail. It’s expected, any spy agency worth their rocks would do so. It just so happens to be the least bit sloppy, is all.

Perhaps it is because he has what they don’t, a way to sense their presence through the pool of chakra they lug about. Outside, the people here seem to have… evolved differently. Rather than growing the kernelled power the first shinobi cultivated, they seem to have discarded it, replaced it with evolutionary science and sprawling technology that he has the good intention of studying later on. They’ve devolved but grown other resources in chakra’s stead.

It’s good. Means the Elemental Countries’ skills will be more sought out, more awed after. Better pay and a better working dynamic, allowing the shinobi the high ground in their _offering_ of service.

The agent is skilled, nonetheless, bleeding chakra or no. Kakashi has yet to see them, yet to make them in the bustling crowd of late afternoon New York. He can smell them though. A waft of vanilla and copper that stands out amongst the stands of people making their way through the crowds. It’s a familiar smell, one he can almost always seek out on his fellow shinobi or enemy-nin tracking his heel.

Even so, a tail is no good, and so he disappears shortly around a sharp corner and henges into someone new, weaving a short genjutsu over himself to cover the differences. There’s enough people leaving with him to mask his escape, and he busies himself with visiting a number of stores lining the large walls of concrete.

He has no intention of leaving so early on, wishing to investigate some of these places and their employers. He’d just shunshin away, if that were not the case.

The thread of blood and vanilla dissipates as he steps into a store labeled in blue, luminescent letters as _STARK INC._

X

“He’s late.”

Hooking his chin over Genma’s padded shoulder, Kakashi blinked innocently at Sakura’s jerk of surprise and the complete lack of shock his sealing specialist exudes.

“Maa, I was only exploring, Genma.”

The man huffs, extracting himself from the flimsy hug-half-sprawl his boss has enveloped him in. He rolls a senbon between his teeth to the other side of his mouth, eyeing the silver haired man with a faintly speculative look. “You went exploring.”

Sakura’s disproving stare hinders Kakashi none at all and he teeters precariously on his heels (to which Sakura then glowers blackly at). “There was some very interesting stores and I just couldn’t resist. There was even a hotdog vender, can you believe that? I almost thought, well,” he continues blithely, “that they used soy in their preparation of their meat, but I was safe, at the very least from that.”

Kakashi’s idea of a joke is the absence of one, and it’s a trait Sakura loathes with every fiber of her being.

She looks tiredly at her sensei, already mentally exhausted from her admittedly intermittent interactions with him. “The meeting?”

Her sensei’s eyes crescent in a smile. “How would you feel about a miracle healing seven days from now?”

“Fine.”

Sakura dodges the pat on the head her sensei is clearly illustrating for, and swats the reaching limb away. She tips her head, pinning the former Rokudaime with a scrutinizing look. “What kind of injury are we talking about, though? They know I can’t heal _every_ wound or illness, right?”

She’s dragged a fair number of shinobi from the brink of death, but even still, some wounds are simply irreparable. She’s offered painless deaths for those too far gone and has put to sleep quite a few of her fellows in such unpleasant times. She surveys her sensei’s partially masked face. “I won’t be able to heal someone if they’re too…” she gestures.

Kakashi scratches his jaw and offers a mellow, “Maa, I don’t think they expect much from us. If they present someone too severely hurt, I’ll intervene, but I doubt they will.”

Sakura nods, conceding, and heads to the sofa of their modest hotel, grappling with her duffel bag. “I’m heading off to bed then.” She spears Kakashi and Genma both with a severe look. “Dinner’s in the fridge. Shiranui-san, make sure he doesn’t make a mess.”

It’s more a note of endearment than any scolding or promised lashing. Kakashi doesn’t leave much behind, even when eating, and so she doesn’t doubt the man will leave the kitchen just as spiffy as it were before he arrived. Genma, she knows, will accompany sensei with his meal, having arrived only seconds before the other.

At Kakashi’s mocking two-fingered salute and Genma’s drawn, “Hai-hai,” Sakura heads off to join Yūgao in their shared room.

The woman is just showered, dressed in sweats and wearing a long, too-big shirt that is sure to hide a fair number of weapons. The clothes don’t look to be her own and Sakura resolves not to question it, certain it was none of her business. Yūgao lounges in her bed, legs crossed and a white laptop in her lap. She looks to be absorbed in something depicted on the screen and Sakura wonders on what it could be as she sets her bag on her own bed and begins sorting through her own night clothes.

“The Outside holds close to no secrets.”

Sakura looks up from her clothing and facial washes, having sectioned off tonight’s use from the next. Yūgao doesn’t spare her a look, merely keeps her eyes trained on the lower part of the screen, clearly reading something of another.

“What?”

“Their internet,” offers Yūgao, thumbing a stray hair behind an ear. “There are…” she blinks, a smile breaking out on her face and dimpling her cheeks. “ _Everything_ is on here. Languages, their histories, the histories of men and women dating back a thousand years. Pictures from hundreds of years ago. An entire litany of countries and their leaders and their advisories and their children and nieces and nephews and each political scandal blown open and commented on by thousands of others from _other_ countries.”

Yūgao shakes her head, quiet awe brightening her features into something kind. The normally soft-spoken woman beams at her, eyes wide. “It’s fantastic.”

Sakura finds herself laughing as she comes around. The kunoichi shuffles over, allowing for the younger woman to come sit beside her. She shares the laptop.

“I picked it up with Tenzō-san from this evening,” she explains, lacquered nails sweeping across the surface of the laptop’s screen, inexplicably interacting with the actual tabs illustrated. “We thought it would be a good start on information gathering and with me being the residential expert, I was the one assigned to—” she gestures broadly with her other hand, the other still streaking across the screen and plucking tabs from background apps.

Sakura furrows her brow at the image that springs into view, eyeing the thick white text and the obviously old but colored picture that sits beneath it.

“’First day as a Jedi, order 66 executed’?” She mimes, question in her tone.

Yūgao nods emphatically. “It’s a ‘meme’,” she explains. “This one is named, ‘bad luck Brian’, or so I’ve been told. It’s meant to extract laughs, I assume. They’re online jokes, meant to be viewed ironically or satirically. They make references to subcultures, often popular movies or shows and books, and use those references as jokes when pasted on alternate images or _gifs_ where something is made fun of in relation to that… image.

Sakura’s mouth forms a small ‘o’ and she nods, understanding, albeit only some. The internet has only been a recent addition to Konoha and since its induction, has since only been used for communication between shinobi and to a lesser extent, civilians. Now, with a lot of the younger generation having grown up with the addition, new sites have been increasingly populous on the stream, with a lot of levity used between bands of communication.

Sakura herself hasn’t been one of those to use it too often. She’s a bit old-school when it comes to that, instead utilizing sealing scrolls and the common pager at the hospital. On long missions far from home, yes. It’d be irresponsible to _not_ at least participate in long-distance communication, at least every few days or so to let the Hokage know you’re not caught in enemy territory or dead or missing.

“And all the countries can communicate with one another? There are no restrictions?”

The gleam in Yūgao’s eyes is bright. It’s strange, seeing it juxtaposed beside the bruises pitting her eyes and the whiteness of her face.

Sakura’s seen her fight before, and when the woman’s eyes light up, it’s with the fervor of battle, the thirst of a parched lust for fight. She’s seen the woman bend, angle her hands, and tip her blade into the jugular of men. Seeing her kind, dressed in pastels and soft, draping pajamas, it inspires a kernel of discomfort in her, faint though it is.

Yūgao nods, lips tugging into a smile. “Yes! There are videos shared from here to Japan to China to Italy to Sweden! Each are at the very least twenty-eight kilometers distant,” she says, impassioned, gesturing lightly with her hands. “North America is eleven thousand kilometers from China, and each can communicate directly with one another!”

Sakura hems, eyes widening. She pulls a knee to her chest, strictly keeping the space between her and her coworker. Shinobi don’t like being touched and it’s something many of the veterans unconsciously adhere to with thought. Sakura and her age group have yet to develop that keen sense of special awareness when it comes to friendlies.

She tilts her head, considering. The possible uses for such technology. It means secrets of the governments or those in high places would have to be guarded exceptionally well, perhaps with the same stringent defending a normal hidden village would enact to keep clan secrets from escaping home territory.

It also means a lot more opportunities at integrating oneself in foreign delegations and countries.

But while Sakura is a shinobi, she is also an academic, and she’s been salivating since Yūgao introduced the unfathomable _width_ of the internet in the Outside.

Yūgao is side-eyeing her, a small smile curving her lips, when Sakura reorientates herself and blinks to the present.

“Wash up,” says her senior, a suggestion more than an order. “Take a shower and then when you get back, you can have the first shift. Just let the rest of the team know before,” she palms the laptop closed and gets up, setting it on Sakura’s bed to the left, before settling into her evening stretches. “I’m sure Genma won’t mind.”

Sakura nods, brightening at the opportunity. “Thank you,” she says, sincere.

Yūgao smiles that sweet smile and waves it off.

With a happy little jaunt in her step, Sakura slinks off the bed and towards the bathroom, swiping the clothes and facial wash from her own bed before shutting the door behind her. Her smile lasts all through her shower and nightly rituals.

X

Genma watches, amused, as Kakashi sheds his coat, toes off his boots, and promptly cracks open a volume of _Icha Icha_ , looking altogether too relieved to be caught reading porn in semi-public again.

He observes the way the younger man’s hair flops, takes note of the lines chiseled under his eyes, exhaustion plainly prominent. The genjutsu melts from his superior’s face, and he stares, unabashed, as Kakashi shuffles into the kitchen and towards the fridge that serves as haven for the likely mediocre food Sakura-san whipped up.

(Say what you will about a woman’s aptitude for cooking, but Sakura-san, to the surprise of absolutely no one who knows her, is a horrid chef.)

The man roots around and after a brief interlude of slapping plastics and obnoxious grunts from his boss, the food appears, a neat stack of Tupperware.

Genma, having settled at the bar, rests his chin on a fist and gnaws on a poisoned senbon. He catches the box Kakashi tosses him with one hand and sets it in front of him, blunt nails tap-tapping the plastic lid of his food. His boss shoots him a glance, eyes devoid of warmth.

The sight resurfaces a memory of a boy, several years his junior but already acclaimed jōnin and ANBU Commander. He’s freshly inducted into the Corps, days past his inauguration ritual, and he’s just been assigned a new team. It’s not Team Ro – only the best have yet to enter that team, but he meets the old classmate in the halls webbing Konoha’s underground.

The same cool look had been wrought through his porcelain mask, newly shined and smooth of scars. Flat, grey eyes had stared at him then, for a single passing instant, and he hadn’t known until later who he had even caught glimpse of – the stare unrecognizable.

Ignoring the Morse code, Kakashi flings himself across kitchen and settles opposite to him, elbows supporting his lackadaisical slump across the marble counter. He fingers the lid off his food and Genma studies him seriously.

“Have you seen the porn here yet?”

The blush that enflames his boss’s face is hilarious. Kakashi’s eyes skirt his own, shuffling on the spot. “A-Ah, I have yet to…”

Genma cracks a grin, laughter bursting forth from his lips. Boss glares at him, siphoning off bites of rice between blinks.

“Maa, that’s not nice Genma. If you’re going to tease me, you might as well follow through,” says Kakashi through a painfully overexaggerated leer and waggle of his eyebrows.

It’s entertaining how often the man switches from stuttering prepubescent girl to ridiculously perverted boy in the blink of an eye. Blushing school girl and then bam, there’s multiple lines of cheesy flattery flying from the man’s lips. It’s hilarious, watching the reactions of those not in the know of Hatake Kakashi’s eccentricities.

It’s a brush of brevity that is sorely needed.

Genma quirks an eyebrow, “Is that a come-on?”

The leer intensifies, somehow, and his superior winks unflatteringly. “Only if you want it to, Genma-kun.”

Genma pops off the lid of his dinner and simultaneously chokes on his spit, coughing vociferously. “Please don’t ever use that suffix again.”

After one more embellished wink, the man subsides and a content quiet settles. It’s noiseless to the point of being able to hear the dull murmurs seeping from the far corner of the hotel room, where Sakura and Yūgao converse softly.

Long minutes pass in the hushed company and it’s following the silent washing of the Tupperware that Kakashi looks Genma in the eyes and says, monotone, “I’m fine.”

Genma’s near struck dumb by the answer, having fully expected his concern to be politely ignored or smiled away – like each time previously throughout his long (terribly long, he reflects) tenure as jōnin and ANBU.

He grins instead. “If not, there’s always porn.”

Kakashi blushes and prudently turns away.

A knock on plaster garners Genma’s full attention and he shoots Sakura a sly look that has her eyeing him uneasily. Her knuckles rest on the white paneling of the kitchen entrance, hips cocked in that idiosyncratic way that proclaims her distinctly unimpressed nature. (She consistently looks this way when in dealing with Naruto, Sasuke, Sai, Kakashi, and frankly a concerning number of other individual shinobi.)

Kakashi prompts her with a notched eyebrow.

“I’m taking first shift.”

“Ah,” pouts boss, cheeks bulging. “But Sakura-chan, me and Genma were going to have manly bonding time while the girls slept! You’ve ruined it all, yet again!”

The unimpressed aura Sakura exudes seems only to multiply in its intensity as she looks on distastefully at her teacher. “You can save it for Gai when we get back in a couple weeks.” She kicks him out of the way as she heads to the sink with an empty glass. To his plaintive whimper, she says, “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“So callous,” approves Genma with a smile. He eyes Kakashi appreciatively. “Good _some_ one’s kicking your ass on the regular.”

The withering look that also looks inadvertently amused from Kakashi causes his smile only to widen.

“Go to sleep sensei,” Sakura orders as she sniffs balefully at her tap water. She takes a sip and pops her lips. “I’ll wake you if you’re not up by twelve,” she assures.

Kakashi waves her off, shoving his fists into the pockets of his dark pants. “Maa, I’ll be up Sakura-chan, don’t worry your sweet little head over me. Of course,” he begins to shuffle off, back facing them, “if you’re willing to kiss me good morning—”

Genma watches as boss lazily catches the knife Sakura beams at him and pockets it before turning around a corner, to where the opposing bedroom rests.

“Tch,” sneers Sakura. “Dog.”

Genma shoots finger guns at her. “You’re not wrong, you know,” he says as he too collects a glass of water.

The pink haired woman sniffs, a feral look on her face. “Quiet.”

“Yes ma’am,” intones Genma solemnly, having spent due time in the hospital under the strict woman to know not to question the medic-nin. He collects his water and goes, feet silent, but pauses at the doorway. He smiles at her, offering a two-fingered salute that receives a proper if exasperated acknowledgement, and says, “Goodnight Sakura-san.”

“Goodnight, Shiranui-san.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> -Yamato's dead in the bedroom for those who are curious. He's been serving as surveillance for the past several days and its his rest time. let the poor man sleep, though he will be in the next chapter definitely  
> -pakkun's making an appearance next chapter ya'll so vulgar language warning lol  
> -Yugao deserves more but Hayate's still dead so  
> -i'm so sorry for the meme portion of this fic and I just want you to know i apologize deeply if you violently flashbacked to 2012 but that's when the first Avenger's took place so i had to (not really but the _opportunity_ *gestures*)  
>  -i gave Genma some attention because he _will_ be appreciated in this fic  
>  -Sakura is still violent but not absurdly so. didn't really flesh out her character in this chapter but it'll be coming for ma girl in pink  
> -Sukea was one of the covers Kakashi used when playing with Team 7 before they split. I think it was filler so its understandable if you didn't know, if you wanna watch it, he reveals his face in it so
> 
>  
> 
> _Preview for next chapter:_
> 
>  
> 
> “Bark. Bark, bark. Bark.”


End file.
